


In Case Of Emergency Contact E.Kaspbrak

by stitchy



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blind Character, Fix-It, Getting Together, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Post-Canon, Role Reversal, Sharing a Bed, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 10:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20655368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: It wasn’t immediately obvious to the Losers that something was wrong with Richie after the Deadlights. After all, his eyesight had always been shit.





	In Case Of Emergency Contact E.Kaspbrak

**Author's Note:**

> I recently spent the better part of two days in the ER with my fiancee, can ya tell? ;)
> 
> With apologies to Sawbones.

It wasn’t immediately obvious to the Losers that something was wrong with Richie after the Deadlights. He was still on his feet, after all. He wasn’t bleeding or whimpering or anything that might make them stop and really evaluate him. He’d even manged to save Eddie from a skewering, somehow. If they noticed that they had to drag and shove him through the tunnels as they escaped It's dark lair, well- his eyesight had _ always _ been shit. It’s not like anyone minded his deathgrip on their elbow under the circumstances. It’s just that by the time they reached the sun soaked pavement of Neibolt Street, he hadn’t let up, still clinging between Eddie and Bill like the middle link in a chain of paper dolls.

Bill shook him off and doubled over to catch his breath. “Every b-body okay?”

“I think I’ll let my therapist make that call,” said Ben. He dropped to the ground and ripped off his boots, spilling out mud.

“We’re probably all overdue for a trip to the shrink.” Bev laughed and started patting down her pockets until she found her cigarette pack, but it too was muddy.

“Skinned my knuckles,” Eddie muttered. His wounded cheek twinged, but he couldn’t complain. He got off easy. If Richie hadn’t woken up, hadn’t rolled them away from It when he did...

“Join the club!” Mike rubbed at his own battered fists, wincing. “You don’t still have that little tube of neosporin, do you?”

Eddie shook his head. “I think it’ll take an assload more than that, dude.” He grinned with only the good side of his mouth and glanced at Richie, expecting him to chime in.

_Speaking of assloads, did anyone else shit their pants? _

But Richie only squinted, deeply contemplating his one hand that wasn’t still wrapped tight around Eddie’s elbow. He held it out an inch from his nose then pulled as far back as his arm’s length would allow, and back again.

“Richie? You all right?”

“I’m fine, I just, uh. I can’t? Really see?”

  
-

  
The hospital in Derry was not up to Eddie’s snuff. Sure they ran a CT scan, a full battery of blood tests, physical examinations, and even a lumbar puncture, but the doctors were missing something. Test after test they ‘hmm’ed and ‘ahh’ed and reserved their judgement, until it had been nearly half a day without a single answer. There was no tumor, no build up of fluid, no trauma to the eyes themselves, nothing that they could point to and rationalize why Richie’s nearsightedness had suddenly narrowed down to three little points of light. Obviously the Deadlights had something to do with it, but getting into the particulars of that ball of wax with a medical professional felt like a good way to get sectioned.

“You’re not going to admit him!?” Eddie pointed at Richie, who was struggling to find the bedside table again to put down his cup of juice. It slopped all over his lap before clattering to the floor and rolling under the gurney. It would have been funny if it wasn’t reminiscent of Richie’s mishap in the bathroom.

“I’ve got spaghetti strainer vision, can’t drive, can’t scroll my phone, and I’ve gotta pee like a girl,” Richie counted off on his fingers. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do than be here, Doc.”

Dr. Scura crossed her arms forbiddingly. “There’s really nothing more I can do for you today. Based on what I’m seeing in your results, you’re not in any immediate danger, Mr. Tozier. I can refer you to some specialists out of town, but there’s no reason to keep you here.”

Eddie grumbled. “We'll take a second opinion.” 

He didn’t like it. He wanted to get Richie tangible help. It’s not like he was expecting a pill that would undo Pennywise, but he had hoped they’d be able to head back to the hotel with _ something_. For now, he had to make do with the assurance that no one was going to keel over in the middle of the night. Richie was putting up a strong front, at least. They could crash back at the Townhouse for a few hours, make some calls, fill in the Losers, then go see what the neuro-opthamologist he’d been googling in Portland had to say.

  
-

“Y’know, driving in Maine’s not much of a spectacle to begin with, but it’s even more boring when you can’t actually see it.”

“Oh! I’ve got something.” Eddie tapped at his phone until it started playing the last thing he had been listening to. Long car rides, though predating the podcast game by a solid century, were invented purely for inflicting your taste in podcasts on unsuspecting passengers. A woman’s voice piped in over the speakers.

“..._ now by a surgeon, of course- I mean a barber surgeon_,” she clarified. “_This was during the time period where ‘doctors’ would not cut into a human body...” _

“You know,” said Eddie, “Maybe you could do a podcast someday? With the Voices?”

Richie swooned dramatically. “I’m sure it’ll come to that when I’m no longer young and beautiful. Just one more asshole in his basement with a microphone.”

“..._ so he checked the king out, he looked at his fistula, and said_...”

“Uh Eddie, quick question,” Richie cleared his throat. “Whatthefuck is this?”

“It’s a medical history podcast? It’s the only thing I have downloaded; the cell service out here is balls.”

“You know me, I love an anal fistula as much as the next guy, but considering we just did ten fuckin’ hours in the ER, and we’re on our way to a repeat performance, I’ll take a pass.”

Before he could think better of it, Eddie twisted the phone dock towards Richie. “You can put on whatever, just don’t thumbs up anything on Pandora unless-” he sighed. “Unless you can _ see _ the fucking button, numbnuts! Shit. Sorry,” Eddie said guiltily.

“It’s okay. I keep trying to check my phone, too.” Richie’s hands twitched in his lap.

Eddie put the radio on instead, which didn’t take much tuning to find a 90’s rock station. That would do. He cranked up Rusted Root and rolled down the windows while Richie kicked his heels up on the dashboard, his messy hair blowing in the breeze. If it wasn’t for the fact that Richie usually drove them around in highschool, it was like they were right back where they left off, cutting class to hightail it to Bar Harbor.

“We smoked our first joint to this,” Richie shouted over the wind and music. “'Member that?”

“Do I remember _ pretending _ to smoke weed with you and the theater kids backstage of Bye Bye Birdie? Yes.”  
  
“Really?” Richie laughed. “Convinced me. And I said you couldn't act...”

Eddie stuck out his tongue. “It was disgusting, everyone’s mouths had been on it! Who knows what kinda herpes was hiding under that scuzzy little moustache of Evan Fishbane’s.”

“You did really smoke with me later though, right? Or is my whole life a lie?”

Well. Given the mysterious lapse of memory they’d all had upon leaving Derry, that was debatable.

Eddie had no other excuse for how he’d let himself backslide into all the patterns he’d started to break out of as a teenager. How might everything be different if he could have held onto the realizations he’d had about his mother, and himself?

He snuck a long look at Richie and gulped.

_ Or him. _Jesus_,_ he had such a crush. Might have saved himself some trouble if he could have remembered about it.

“Yeah. I only ever shared with you.”

“Aww.” Richie nestled into his jacket to get comfortable. “That’s cute.”

“You’re a special case, Rich.” _ Really special_. “I know _exactly_ where that Trashmouth’s been.”

“Only cause your mom loves to kiss and tell, Eds.”

Eddie snorted. “Hey, I wonder if Fishbane still deals. When this is all over we can look him up.”

“You, Eduardo, risk analyst extraordinaire?” Richie gasped. “You would smoke again, in your old age, your twilight years!?”

“Ehh...” That was a fair point. Hacking up an out-of-practice lung wasn’t as fun at forty as it was at fourteen. “Maybe he’s got edibles.”

“Oh, fuck Fishbane. We don’t need him. If you want the hookup in Derry just ask Mike.”

“Whaaat?” Eddie’s mind boggled.

“Did you not hear he drugged Bill?”

  
-

  
Another waiting room. More tests. More phonecalls. Some more overdue than others.

Eddie was starting to think he should have packed another pair of shoes for all the pacing he was doing. He did lap after lap up and down the corridor with Richie’s glasses hooked on the neck of his shirt, clutching the rest of his precious things to his chest while he was taken away for the latest MRI. The second time he dropped Richie’s phone, he forced himself to sit down.

They’d never really had boundaries with their belongings, so he thought nothing of thumbing through Richie’s wallet, trying to puzzle out what kind of life his friend had lead while they’d been apart. Along with the expected bank cards, there was a Ralph’s card, a Stubs Club, and his insurance. Eddie had already memorized that, of course, having filled out Richie’s hospital paperwork twice now. _In Case Of Emergency Contact: E. Kaspbrak_. There were a few industry business cards. Should he call Richie’s manager? He’d already called his own office and arranged to work remotely for the next two months... But _no_, he thought_. _Richie would have the best handle on that.

He got to Richie’s driver’s license, with his scribbly little signature and smiling headshot. He looked good. He was focused on the camera. Aware of his surroundings. Not like now.

Eddie continued shuffling through cards before he could dwell on how strange and vacant Richie’s eyes had been since the Deadlights. (Since Eddie had saved him and then he had saved Eddie, and could they _ please _ just stay saved. _ Please_.)

Finally the door marked _ No Visitors _ opened again and the porter came back with Richie. 

Eddie didn’t hesitate to jump to his side and touch his hand to let him know he’s there. “How’d it go?”

Richie’s eyes were barely open. It was so strange to see him without glasses, dressed only in a bland hospital johnny. It made Eddie feel sick to his stomach.

The porter wouldn’t meet Eddie’s eye. Never a good sign.

“They saw something in my brain, Eds,” Richie said quietly.

“No! What?” _ No, no, no... _Eddie knew it. Richie had some undetected abscess or bleed and it was all downhill from here. His nose started to prickle.

Richie’s eyes popped open and he shot fingerguns at Eddie. “I’ve got shit for brains!”

“Oh thank fuck,” Eddie exhaled. He tossed Richie’s wallet and phone into his lap without warning.

“Ooph!”

The porter snickered as he drew the curtain on their room and left again.

Eddie took a deep breath and wiped his eyes, doing his best to sniff quietly so that Richie won’t be able to tell. “You’re a dickhead.”

“That’s not what the urologist said.” Richie patted the edge of the bed next to him. “C’mon, pull up a chair, Eddie. It’ll be a while.”

Once Eddie was settled with his chin pillowed on his arms Richie reached out, fingers first, feeling his way along Eddie’s shoulders. He draped his arm around Eddie’s back while his other hand kept reaching for his phone, absentmindedly.

“What’re you trying to do?”

“I dunno, check the news? See if it’s my turn on Words With Friends?”

Eddie pried the phone out of his hand and tried not to get tripped up by the discovery that his lockscreen was the selfie they’d taken together at Jade of the Orient, their faces scrunched in ecstatic, drunken smiles. “What’s your code?”

“Sixty-nine sixty nine, obviously.”

Rolling his eyes, Eddie tapped the numbers in, but it buzzed, denying access. Richie snickered and Eddie poked him vengefully in the thigh.

“What’s it really?”

“Twenty-five ninety-nine.”

That one worked. “What’s that for?”

Richie put on one of those classic, mid-century New York accents. “Christmas 1899, kid. Humphrey Bogart’s birthday.”

“What sorta douche knows that?”  
  
“Douches who like Humphrey Bogart,” Richie said, chomping an imaginary cigar.

“You like Humphrey Bogart?”

“He’s like, the ideal man.”

Eddie shrugged. “He just always seemed like an old party pooper to me.”

“Pot meet fuckin’ kettle, Eds.”

Eddie jabbed Richie in the thigh, and then dutifully updated Richie on the hurricanes down south and happenings at the UN, as well as to the fact that Merriam-Webster would be adding a new definition of ‘troll’ to their dictionary. That reminded them to check how Richie’s games were going.

“You’ve got... I, Q, R, P, O,O, and another I. Forty-seven tiles remaining.”

Richie’s fingers tapped on Eddie’s shoulder blade as he thought. “Don’t suppose there are any low hanging U’s on there already?”  
  
Eddie scanned the board. “Nope.”  
  
“Oh fuck it, then.” Richie made a jerk off motion. “Don’t stress the Q right now. Can I slap a PRO somewhere, or work ROPE onto one of their E’s?”

“If you put PRO in front of this RATE, you’ll get a double word score.”  
  
“Take that, JoesWii88!” Richie crowed.

Before they could devise their next move, the doctor poked his head in.

“Excuse me! So! You’re probably sick of being here- let me wrap this up for you so you can get home.”

Eddie jumped up from his seat and rounded on Dr. Barton. “Wrap up? Again? Already?”

“Well, I agree with Dr. Scura,” said the doctor. “There’s nothing physically wrong here. I think, from what you described about the accident, we’re looking at a psychosomatic response to emotional trauma.”

“Trauma,” Richie repeats, like _ Why didn’t I think of that? _Plenty of trauma to go around here!

“I know that this will sound like a non-answer,” Dr. Barton admitted, “But I think somewhere between seeking therapy and taking some time to relax and recover, you’re going to see results. If you need a referral I have some colleagues in this hospital-”

Scratching his head, Richie sighed. “I’m not local to Portland, but thanks.”

Eddie fixed Dr. Barton with a determined look. “I will personally hound him until he follows up. When, uhm. We figure out where that’s gonna happen.”

“Good,” nodded the doctor. “I don’t have to tell you how to use the internet, but in the meanwhile obviously there are hotlines for-”

“I’m all over it,” Eddie waved and pointed to the phone in his hand. “Thank you. I think we’ve got it from here.”

“All right. Take care. And please take it easy, Mr. Tozier!”

With that, they were discharged. While Richie changed and took one last opportunity to ruin the ER bathroom, Eddie texted the Losers.

_ Diagnosis: Richie’s got shit for brains _

_ I mean, duh. _Bev responded first.

_ So- what’s that actually? _ asked Mike.

_ It’s all in his head. Therapy. _

_ Called it. _said Ben.

Bill just sent back a shit-eating grin emoji.

Richie emerged from the bathroom eventually, having successfully put back on his pants and shoes. “Can you hand me this fucking t-shirt so I don’t put it on backwards again, I’m making myself nuts.”

“Yeah buddy,” said Eddie. He turned the shirt inside out and watched as Richie pulled it over so the back of the printed lettering read ARABRAB ATNAS instead of Santa Barbara. He gave Richie an unseen thumbs up. “Ready to blow this taco stand?”

“I call shotgun.”

By the time they made it to the car again it was sun down, and Eddie made up his mind that ‘relaxing’ on doctor’s orders would not include a three hour drive back to Derry. They could hang out down here. Kennebunkport was half an hour away, depending on traffic, which ought to be light. Most of the summer crowd would have shoved off already. They could get a hotel by the beach. Walking on the beach was something Richie could do without his eyes that felt nice, smelled nice, sounded soothing... Then they could sit in the sand and hash it all out. Would Richie want to go back to LA and get a therapist there? (Eddie could come with him and make sure he didn’t blindly wander onto the freeway!) Or would he want to stay in Maine after all? (Eddie could live with that.) Or maybe he’d want to go back to New York with Eddie. (He had intended on letting Myra keep the house, but-)

“That sounds good,” Richie agreed before Eddie could finish justifying a beach day. “We’ll have to go skinny dipping though, I didn’t pack for swimming.”

Eddie’s full-face blush was mercifully unobserved. “I am not letting your blind ass swim in the fucking Atlantic Ocean.”

“Bitch!”

“I know you are but what am I?”

He opened the car door for Richie and manhandled him in so he wouldn’t smack his dumb, lovable head and inflict some physical damage after all. _ Though, _ Eddie thought to himself_, if you’re going to get a head wound, do it in a hospital parking lot. _

  
-

Any chivalry Richie exhibited by insisting on paying for their hotel immediately evaporated when they made it to the room. He dropped his bag in the middle of the floor, kicked off his shoes, and catapulted himself at the bed, dragging Eddie down with him. Something crunched between them as they landed.

“Ugh, your glasses were still on my shirt,” said Eddie, faced mashed into the duvet. He wriggled to free his arm that was trapped under Richie and make sure they weren’t actually broken. “All good. You want ‘em back?”

Richie rolled over to his back and shrugged. “What’s the point?”

Eddie put them on the nightstand but looked down at Richie, considering. “It’s kind of like you’re missing ten percent of your face without them.”

“You saying there’s something wrong with my face?” Richie grinned. 

“Maybe, fuckface.”

“You’re the one with a freaky knife wound. Just ‘cuz I can’t see it now, don’t think I’ll forget!”

“I know my modeling career is over,” said Eddie. “Don’t rub it in!”

“Mmm! But just beginning, is your career as a Star Wars villain.”

It was a little more Miss Piggy than Yoda, but Eddie giggled, regardless.

Then, the same way Richie had tentatively reached out to him at the hospital, he danced his fingers up Eddie’s chest and neck until he reached his face. He stopped there with his thumb just grazing Eddie’s lip, which Eddie was absolutely not prepared for. His breath stuttered. It wouldn’t take more than a shift of his weight to connect them, but-

But he _ wasn’t _ going to take advantage of his blind friend when he was just seeking a little tactile comfort. He wasn’t sure Richie even swung that way. His heart squeezed as he dragged his gaze away from Richie’s mouth.

“Eds?”

Eddie could feel the edge of Richie’s hospital bracelet scratch his throat as it worked hard to make a word, _ any _ word come out. “Wuh?” was the best he could do.

“Does your face hurt, Eds?”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Eddie sighed, a bit relieved. “Why?”  
  
“‘Cause it’s killin’ me!”

“How. Dare. You.” Eddie gave Richie the friendly punch to the gut that joke deserved and Richie laid it on thick, groaning like he’d just been body slammed by a sumo wrestler.

“Guuhhhhhh!” he cried, flopping all his limbs out like a starfish and smacking Eddie on the nose. “AhghhhhhhhhhgggggohGod I’m fuckin' exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “You wanna turn in?”

“I feel like I’ve spent the entire day in bed. And yet.”

“You need anything?” Eddie searched around a reason to get out of the bed so that he didn’t look like he just _assumed_ they were sharing. “Water? Alarm Clock? Uhm. Pillows?”

“Yeah-”

Eddie started to get up, but Richie grabbed him.

“No, no. Just. Can you check my email real quick?”

Settling back down, Eddie pulled out Richie’s phone again. “Twenty-five ninety-nine,” he remembered.

“For Bogey,” Richie blew a kiss.

The little red notification bubble was at least 200 higher than when they’d been at the hospital. “Geez, that’s a lot emails.”

“Just search for Christine, my manager.”

“Uhh, most recent message? She asks can you make the dates in Nevada or not, she’s got another guy who can pinch hit.”

“Go ahead and give him the dates. I’m taking a month off. Spent all day in the ER. I’ve got a.... thingy?” Richie grimaced. “I defer to your expertise on how best to malinger.”

“TBI?” Eddie suggested. On the off chance Richie is back to his usual self in two or three weeks, a TBI won't be as difficult to walk back as a sudden bout of blindness.

“Ouch. You should see the other guy.”  
  
Eddie snickered. “I’ll bet. Send?”

“Yup.”

“Anything else while I’m here? Drop your sister a line? Cancel your porn subscription?”

Richie laced his fingers together behind his head. “If that’s an offer to read me an erotic bedtime story, I have some bookmarks.”

Somehow, Eddie resisted the urge to open his browser and check if he was being bullshitted. If such things did exist, they might put to bed (hah) a question or two.

“Filed under Y. For ‘Your’-”

“_Your Mom_, yeah I get it, ya creep.” Eddie dropped Richie’s phone on the bed. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”

“M’kay.”

Eddie got up and unpacked his toiletry bag, taking care to put everything away in the corner of the counter so Richie wouldn’t knock over anything while searching for the taps. While he brushed his teeth he watched Richie in the mirror, shucking his pants and shirt, kicking them to the floor, then wrestling his way under the covers like he was assembling a tent. What a slob.

He washed his face and picked up Richie’s stuff before ditching his own clothes for some pajama pants in his luggage. When he turned around again, Richie was looking at him. Well, as much as he could with his severe tunnel vision. He squinted in Eddie’s direction. “Are you ripped now, Kaspbrak?”

“I... run? Sometimes?” He’s no Ben, but he’s always been pretty trim.

“I can only see like, one earlobe, a nipple, and whatever in this room is pink.”

Eddie looked over his shoulder. “The curtains?”

“Phew. I was worried you dyed your hair.”

“I should dye _ your _ hair while you’re sleeping.” He tousled Richie’s flyaways then sat down on the second bed. “You’d never even know.”

Richie frowned when the springs creaked. “Nah, c’mere. Just in case I need you.” He patted the bed beside him.

Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat. He made a noisy business out of turning off each lamp as he circled Richie’s bed to the empty side. “I have a sleepmask-“

“Kinky!”

“Fuck off. I mean, d’you want me to hit all the lights, or does it help? I don’t mind either way.”

“You can turn them all off.”

“Sure.”

As soon as Eddie sank into the bed, Richie rolled over to face him. He squinted at Eddie some more but he was quiet for a long moment. “Thanks,” he finally whispered. “This is a real chore, Eds, and you’re uh- being really great. And I know even on a good day I’m not.... I’m not always_ easy_.” His hand creeped across the sheets toward Eddie.

“Not as easy as your mom,” Eddie yawned. He met Richie in the middle and tangled their fingers. He'd never found it all that hard to care about Richie Tozier.

  
-

  
They did OK overnight. No busted shinbones or broken furnishings. Eddie suspected Richie had nightmares, but he wasn’t going to press it. Not without offering coffee, anyway. He shepherded Richie to the shower in the morning and laid out one of his louder button downs and some cuffed jeans, then went down to the lobby to fetch breakfast.

In the grand tradition of Continental Breakfasts every where, there were no-frills scrambled eggs and some of those irresistible little sausages, so he loaded himself up before making a tray for Richie, with at least one of everything except the blueberry muffins. Richie despised blueberry. Once, when they were maybe fourth or fifth grade, there had been a school trip to do a nature walk and pick fruit, and while all their classmates snacked as fast as they could find the berries, Richie was the only one who came back with a full, undisturbed basket. He let Eddie pilfer them later, and Eddie, of course, made himself sick on the ones that weren’t ripe.

When Eddie came back to the room, he was surprised to hear voices as he opened the door.

“Room service!” he announced himself.

Richie was sprawled out on the bed, dressed, but with his hair still in a towel as he took a call on speakerphone.

“Eddie?”

“Hey Bev. Did Richie wake you up?” Eddie put down the tray on the desk and nudged Richie to sit up. “What a dick.”

“Nah, I called him,” she assured Eddie. “Is it cool if we meet you guys down there for dinner?”

“Yeah, just- please, you guys pick where.” Eddie rubbed his forehead. “We’ve got stuff to figure out so having one less decision to make would rock.”

Bev laughed. “Sure! Don’t worry, I won’t let Mike pick Chinese again.”

Richie found a danish, and spoke through it. “I know it’s the beach and all, but if I even see a crab leg, I’ll fucking lose it.”

“Then it’s probably a good thing you _ can’t see _ right now.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Bev said confidently. “I’m gonna let you guys go, but Richie-”

"Yeshh?”

“Be patient.”

While Richie navigated the rest of his breakfast, Eddie commandeered his backpack for a beach bag. He put all of Richie’s things into the hotel dresser drawers, then tossed in some towels, bananas, a sweatshirt, and anything from his toiletry bag with a decent SPF.

“You should take one of the spare sheets from the room,” said Richie, waiting for him to finish. He stood by the desk with one hand on the edge to remind him where it was. “So you don’t get sand up your shorts.”

Eddie wasn’t wearing shorts, but the thoughtfulness struck him just the same. Richie was more sensible than people might suspect, under all the crude bullshit. A guy like that had to have some saving grace, or else he’d be dead by now.

  
-

It was warm weekday with a good enough wind that people were flying kites down by the water. That was always a good sign that the beach wasn’t too crowded, or else the flyers might get kicked off the dune for accidentally nosediving other beachgoers.

“Any really weird ones?” Richie asked, as they walked arm in arm towards the shore.

Eddie couldn’t see if any of the kites had something printed on them yet, but he noted a few impressive shapes. “There’s one of those ones that look like two boxes that I have never figured out _ how _ people get them in the air. Bunch of the regular diamond shape. Two or three of those, like, super fucking professional ones that are made of nylon and have more than one string.”

“The ones that could carry off a small child, or an adult Eddie, you mean?”

“Fuck you! I had a big breakfast.”

“Just be careful, Eds. If you go hangliding over the ocean and fall off, I can’t dive in to save you. I’ve been forbidden.”

Eddie stopped short and let Richie trip himself, but he didn’t let him go down.

When they got to the sand they took off their shoes and rolled their jeans into clamdiggers. As they tramped along at the edge of the water, horsing around and kicking up sand at each other, all that was missing was one of those squeaky plastic buckets for building sandcastles and dumping over your best friend’s head.

Eventually they decided to set up camp and catch their breath. They picked a spot far enough up the dune that they wouldn’t soak their blanket, then plopped to the ground happily. Eddie rubbed his feet together like a cricket to remove as much sand as possible before scooching into the middle. Richie shook his head and scrubbed his face and hair with both hands and growled.

“You get sand in your ears?”

Richie collapsed backward. “I couldn’t shave this morning. It’s been four days, I must look like a caveman.”

“You said it, not me,” Eddie smirked. “I’ve been thinking of growing a beard, myself.” He touched his cheek gingerly. He was only using a little tape bandage now, and it didn’t really interfere with his facial hair, but it did make him feel more rugged. 

Richie’s eyebrows flew up. “Don’t!”

“No?”  
  
“...Then I won’t know what you look like.”

They had only just got that back, hadn't they? Eddie tried to imagine holding onto one final image of Richie. He thought of the picture of the two of them on his phone. “I’m generally pretty stubbly,” he said, rubbing his chin.

“Yeah, but that works on you,” Richie declared. “Like a hardboiled detective. On me, it’s just homeless chic.”

“Beach bum," Eddie hummed.

He laid back and stared up at the clouds. Now and again a seagull flew by, way up high. It was nice how the sky here went on and on, in every direction. You didn’t get that so much in New York. He knocked his knee into Richie’s.

“I could help you shave, if you like.”

Richie hummed gratefully. “Everyday?”

“Yeah.” _ On and on, in every direction. _

“This won’t be forever though,” Richie twirled a finger at his own face.

Eddie didn’t care. The offer stood. “It doesn’t matter how long,” he said.

“Uh oh, I think I feel a Boyzone song comin’ on.”

"I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

“Something like that.”

_ “Whatever_.” This was Eddie’s opening. “Rich, where do you want to be in a month?”

Richie folded his hands over his stomach. “I gave up the Reno dates, so, not there, I guess.”

“Not touring,” Eddie said, though he knew Richie knew what he was driving at. He just felt vulnerable, and when Richie felt vulnerable, he misdirected.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to put him on the spot without putting himself in the hot seat, too.

“Look, uh- I’m not planning on going back to New York. Not unless I know I’ll have people there.”

Richie twitched, turned his head toward Eddie ever so slightly. “What about your Mrs. K?”

“I ended it,” Eddie said simply. It hadn’t been a hard choice to make once he realized he even had the choice. He wasn’t himself until he came back to Derry. He wasn’t happy. “It’s time for a change.”

“Oh. Right on, dude.” Richie looked back up at the sky. “I guess Bev won’t be going back to New York, either.”

“Seattle?”

“Seattle,” Richie confirmed. He was closer to Bev, so Eddie figured he had the up-to-date scoop Re: her future with Ben.

“Have you been?”

“It’s kind of like here, but more hip.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Eddie considered. “And Bill’s in LA. If you went back you could look him up.”

“If I do, yeah.”

Eddie started rubbing his feet together again, even though he’d already (mostly) freed them of sand. He was so tense. Then he noticed how much he was moving and how still Richie was being. Eerily still, like when he was caught in the-

“I’ll go with you,” Eddie said, trying to be brave and jump between Richie and the fear again. “I _ want _ to.”

“To LA?”

“LA, or Seattle. The moon.”

Richie rolled over and laid his scruffy cheek on his folded hands. It made his glasses go askew on his nose. “That’s good, because they definitely don’t have barbershops on the moon,” he grinned.

“Let’s try Earth, first. I can work anywhere, really. Help out with the scratch."

“I have room in LA. And an old therapist I quit on.”

That surprised Eddie. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do as much arm twisting as he thought. “You’ve gone before?”

“Sure, it’s LA. I got a referral from John Malkovich.”

“Oh sure! And Judi Dench set me up with my fucking podiatrist. Why’d you quit?”

“She was desperate for me to get a love life,” Richie shrugged with one shoulder. “You’d think treating the one comedian in LA who’s _ not _ a sexaholic would be a refreshing change of pace. I could go back to her though. She was all right.”

Eddie couldn’t help but think smugly how him playing house with Richie might please John Malkovich’s preferred therapist. “Can’t hurt to try. We should try everything, man. Your vision’s pretty important.”

Richie took a sharp breath. “There’s something else I was thinking could be worth a shot. It’s why Bev called actually.”

“Well I know she doesn’t want to collaborate on a celebrity fashion line,” Eddie snickered, tugging on the sleeve of Richie’s horrible shirt. He had picked it from Richie’s luggage specifically so that he wouldn’t lose him in a crowd if the beach was busy.

Richie reached out and yanked on his shirt in return. “Yeah, what color gray are you wearing right now, asshole?”

Eddie scoffed. “... Slate.”

“Thrilling.” Richie kept hold of a corner of Eddie’s shirt and worried it between his fingers. He chewed the inside of his cheek for a minute while the shadows of birds and kites overhead flickered across his thinking face. It was a familiar signal, if you knew him. He was gearing up, about to go full Trashmouth and motor on until he’d said all he had to say. “Last night, I had the same dream as Bev, about the Deadlights. We saw each other there? That’s why she called. But she was a kid again. We all were. But we were us- Now Us, too.”

The brush of Richie’s hand in his shirt tickled distractingly, so Eddie covered it with his own. “So, like a shared dream thing? Could you control it and talk to each other, or was it like-”

“-It was more like a memory, and we were along for the ride,” Richie said quickly. "But she knew I was dreaming, and I could tell she was, too."

“Huh.”

Richie continued on. “You know, I forgot about what exactly happened with the Deadlights the first time, with Bev. I mean, we all did, duh. The whole leaving Derry thing. But for a while there-_ at the time_, it looked like it was gonna be Bev and Bill, right? So I forgot about it.”

“Oh. With Ben.” Until Richie said it, Eddie had forgotten, too. He blinked a few times. His hand holding Richie’s suddenly felt very clammy. “I could...” Eddie cleared his throat. “Well, it could have been a coincidence.”

“You said we should try _ everything_, Eds,” Richie pointed out. “That includes the Disney bullshit, I think.”

Eddie’s ears rushed with the sound of the nearby waves. He felt excruciatingly hot. Had the clouds all rolled out? The weather wasn’t forecasted to be_ that _ warm. “I don’t want you to feel fucking obligated to me.”

“_Eddie_,” Richie said, as serious as he had ever sounded in their very unserious time together. _Eddie_. It was just his name being said so earnestly by someone he had loved his entire life, but what Eddie heard was _ Please. Be brave. Be my lockscreen. Come with me to LA and show up my old therapist. Rag on me for my stupid taste in clothes and screen legends and don’t ever grow a fucking beard. _

He pulled Richie’s hand to his face and felt his thumb graze his lower lip like it had the night before- a little sandy and salty from the ocean air. Eddie dipped his head slowly with it still there, so Richie could feel him coming in for the kiss, but Richie still made a surprised little noise. He kissed him once, twice, and traced the tip of his nose along the line of his cheek until he bumped into the rim of his glasses. Not missing a beat, Richie ripped them off and tossed them aside, then wrapped his arms around Eddie and flipped them. He nudged his way to Eddie’s neck with a hot, hungry mouth, and if Eddie thought he was on fire a moment ago- now he was sweating napalm. Never one to let Richie bully him around without giving as good as he got, Eddie shoved him again until they rolled off the sheet and into the sand.

“Aw, fuck.” Eddie pushed up on all fours over Richie.

“Is that sand in your shorts?" Richie asked breathlessly. "Or are you just happy to see me?”

Eddie sat back on his heels and started to clap the sand off his hands, but then remembered. “Wait, can _ you _ see? Talk!”

Richie craned his neck. “I can tell you’re a human person but if you’re gonna ask me to count fingers I’ll need my glasses.” He smirked and bucked his hips under the guise of trying to slither over to where he’d tossed them.

Eddie lost his balance and plunged his hands into the sand again. He flipped Richie some very sandy birds.

“All right, that’s definitely_ two_.” Richie grabbed his wrists and tried to pull him down again.

“Nope, the moment’s passed.”

“C’mon!” Richie laughed and changed tactics, wrestling to sit up. “It might not have took. Gotta make sure I don’t go blind again.”

Eddie let himself be wrapped in Richie’s arms and smothered with sloppy kisses. “Oh my god. We spent _ so much time _ in the ER!”

“I _know_." Richie kissed his nose. "I have-” he kissed Eddie's eyebrow, “-a really shitty deductible.”

  
-

  
A few hours later they pulled into the parking lot of On the Marsh, which the Losers group chat assured them had plenty of non-crab leg options.

“So, we’re gonna fuck with their heads, right?”

“Oh, totally.”

  
  



End file.
